The Only Thing That's Real
by At A Venture
Summary: Eric/Sookie. Companion to "Rupture". Eric's emotions are a roller coaster.


_A/N: This is a companion piece to "Rupture". The following piece contains explicit references to gratuitous, non-consensual sexual violence. If you are at all disturbed by these concepts, or by concepts of sado-masochism, **do not** read this story. This is meant to be a dark and disturbing point of view. Thanks to FarDareis Mai for the assistance and encouragement! _

_*The title of this piece is from "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails  
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**The Only Thing That's Real  
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_"Sensual excess drives out pity in man."_ – Marquis de Sade

I am first and foremost attracted to her strength. She is the strongest human I have ever known, a woman hell-bent on self-preservation. She is a fortress on the defensive, and somewhere buried deep inside, her heart dwells. She is fiercely, violently independent, and she is bound and determined to thwart the advances of any knight. Whether he plans to bow his head and enter her gate with his weapons abandoned, or he plans to break in by force, it matters not to her. She is brave and valiant, perhaps a warrior in some other life.

Her vulnerability, rare and remarkable, enraptures me.

I am captivated. In the moment I see her, I am a melting pot of lust and anger, anxiety and defeat. My flesh crackles as though exposed to the malicious sun. She kneels in the center of the parking lot, underneath the golden circle of a single security lamp. Her body is bent at an unusual, perverted angle, and her shoulders lean upon the gravel. She chokes, and a few drops of blood roll down the side of her face, dripping wastefully onto the jagged pebbles. The dark stain on her shirt swells as I stare.

I walk to her, willing my feet to move. My knees land heavily on the uneven ground, tossing up dusty stones. I shove a hand dexterously beneath her shoulder blades and pull her up against my chest. She is a rag-doll on my forearm.

I have not long been privy to the depths of human emotion. My moods are coiled into a pit of snakes that writhe and twist in my veins. My rage is a cobra, venomous and violent, fueled with the wrath of a vengeful demon. My mercy is a python, binding her possessively, concerned only with her swift recovery. Bloodlust and sexual desire are rattlers, cannibalizing my sentiments, mutating my soul. The muscles in my gut tighten. My arteries squeeze shut. I am aflame with lust, and everything else is reduced to ash.

"Sookie," I murmur with effort, pushing reassurance and strength through our bond in a genuine attempt to engage her. Her lips part but she does not speak. Instead, a ragged breath escapes her.

I want to shove my cock into that opening, to force myself inside her, to wrap a hand around her throat and lick that blood roughly from her cheek, her chin.

"Pam," I grunt brutally, delegating my child to the pursuit of her attacker. "Felicia, call the police."

She turns her head from me to regard Felicia. She engages the frenzy of activity around us for a moment, and then her eyes fall shut. She lingers for a moment in the limbo between awareness and oblivion. She is exquisite.

A vast stain tarnishes her pure white shirt. I raise my free hand and unbutton it, taking time to stroke the curve of her breast, to find the reactionary hardness of her nipple. She makes no sound of protest; she does not even acknowledge the gesture. The puncture hole is deep, and air escapes from it each time she endeavors to breathe. Now that the fabric has been removed, the wound bleeds freely. Streams of sustenance roll down her side. I place my hand beneath them and lift the pocket of my palm to my lips.

She tastes of agony, delectable and savory.

I close my eyes and dip my hand beneath the fountain again, refilling my cup a second time. When had I last taken my fill of her? I cannot remember. Never has she tasted so succulent, like an animal caught in a trap. She suffers, and the suffering gives her a taste incomparable to anything else in this life. I am empty with hunger.

Underneath my concern for her, my desire is invigorated. The zipper on my jeans is sure to leave an impression on the growing organ it struggles to contain. I could throw her back on the ground and rip the bustier from her prone body. Her skin is as white as a Scandinavian winter, but the nipples are as dark as her blood-stained mouth. I could smear her blood all over her pale skin, then bend down to lick it from her as I shove myself inside her. She might whimper in all her pain, but it would only spur me on, advance me in my lust.

Her eyes open again, and stare up at me. She is a concotion of confusion and terror, and the anguish that suddenly consumes her numbs my appetite. I lick the last of her from the roof of my mouth and bite down into my wrist, tasting the flatness of my own veins. My arm hovers above her mouth, and she turns away just in time to let the drop stain her hair.

"Drink, Sookie," I snarl at her.

Her mouth would cover my wound, a child searching for nourishment. She would feast hungrily, her fingers clawing at my skin as though she ached to crawl inside me. I could enter her then; hurt her while she hurt me. She'd weep into my veins, and precious air would seep from the wound in her side. I could be merciless, as she hovered on the brink between torment and hunger, terror and desire. She would taste the yearning in my blood, and I would drink the ache from her skin.

"Lover," I moaned, trying to pacify my physical response. "Drink it. I don't want to lose you."


End file.
